


Could've Been.

by a_skalds_tale



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), ragnar ragnarson, ragnar the younger
Genre: Action & Romance, Anglo-Saxon, Angst and Romance, Children, Children of Characters, Domestic Fluff, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff, Kidnapping, Newborn Children, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, The Last Kingdom - Freeform, Vaginal Sex, Vikings, War, norsemen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_skalds_tale/pseuds/a_skalds_tale
Summary: My life is good. My life with Ragnar Ragnarson is good.He treats me well. As an equal. Different, but equal.He has given me everything I’ve wanted, and a few things I didn’t even know I wanted, too. He is a good man.I am Anna. I am Saxon. And this is my story.
Relationships: Ragnar Ragnarson/ OC, Uhtred Ragnarson/Gisela, uhtred of bebbanberg/ragnar the younger
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. i

i.

  
The sun shone through the small window in our bedchambers, hitting a jewel, encrusted on an ancestral sword _just_ right, sending rainbows of light scattering everywhere. I shuffled in the bed, hands reaching behind me, searching for him. I rolled over, expecting to see my big bear of a man lying beside me, either still asleep or smiling, excited I was finally awake. But his side of the bed was cold. Empty.  
I frowned, sighing. Off hunting, I assumed. We had eaten the last of the venison the night before in a wonderful stew he had so lovingly prepared.

My feet hit the cold, stone floor, immediately sending chills and goosebumps up and down my bare body. Faint marks of bruises scattered my wrists, from where Ragnar had held them above my head the night before, behind my back, whatever position suited him. I smiled.  
He had left a pot and a small bucket of water near the hearth in our chambers for me to wash this morning. Always thoughtful. I emptied the bucket into the pot, to warm it over the remnants of last night’s fire, and dipped a wash rag into the water. I ran it over my arms, my legs, my belly, Ragnar’s dried seed lingering still between my thighs, across my hipbones. After he was finished with me last evening, I was exhausted, practically rendered unconscious.

In moments like this, my mind wanders to what my life could be like, should I still be in Wessex. Should I still be a Saxon woman. I would probably be married to a Saxon man, who never heard of anything regarding a woman’s pleasure, nor would he have any desire to bring me to such heights my Ragnar does. He would only care for the pleasure he could find, the number of sons I would produce. Heirs to his land, his property. His wealth. He probably would have land, have property, but would he know how to work the land? How to keep it? How to build an entire homestead with his hands? How to hunt and fish and gather roots for food? He would probably have a sword, but would he know how to properly wield it? How to protect his family, his property, his land, his estate he built from the earth up? Probably not.  
I smile. Thinking of the man who Ragnar saved me from. Though he did not know at the time, he was saving me.

Agnes, my sister, knocked on my door as I put a dress over my head. “I know you’re up.” she giggled.  
“Yes, I am awake,” I answered. The door creaked open, my sisters small frame standing behind the door. “What?” I asked. She smiled, giddy.  
Agnes, my middle sister, is to be married to Bjorn, a Dane who lives in the fortress with Ragnar and I. He is Ragnar’s right hand man. “Bjorn says it shall be this week! In two days, it is Friday, and all Dane’s marry on Fridays.” she exclaimed.  
Her hair was messy, dress on crooked, a lovesick grin across her features. “You know what all is involved in a Norse wedding, right?” I asked, running a comb through my hair, eyes pinching shut as it snagged at the knots. She shook her head no, sitting on the trunk at the end of the bed. “Lots of preparation. There is a ‘stripping away’ of the old self. You’d have to be without him for nearly a whole day. Without his cock for a whole day.” I teased, tying my hair back with a red, silk ribbon.  
“Oh stop it. If I get him for a whole lifetime, I think I can survive one night without it.” she teased back.  
“I doubt it, we’ve heard you each night.”  
“And you don’t think we haven’t heard the two of you each night? I swear if you get any louder mother and father will find us here.” she laughed.  
“That’s not funny,” I scolded through laughter. I picked up my gold chain, the one Ragnar had made for me, and placed it around my neck. “Well, regardless, I am happy for you. I hope you’ll be as happy as Ragnar and I are.”

We went downstairs together to prepare for the men’s return. Mary, Leif’s woman, was already down there, the first loaf of bread in the oven for the day. “Morning, Mary.” I greeted.  
“Morning.” she mumbled.  
“You alright?” Agnes, the ever intuitive one asked.  
“Fine. I’m fine,” Mary said. “I need to go to the river to do the wash, do you mind to get the bread out of the oven when it is finished? Please don’t let it burn.” she pleaded.  
“Of course, of course!” I said, finding the eggs Ragnar had left for me this morning.

I cooked some eggs and ate the heel of the bread I had baked yesterday for breakfast, and chugged a mug of water.  
“He must’ve worn you out last night, hm?” Agnes asked, smirking at me.  
“Can you think of nothing else?” I asked, walking to the oven to remove the loaf of bread. Trying to walk normally, though the ache between my legs was present.  
“No. I cannot. Not when Bjorn leaves me pleasure drunk each night.”  
“I am sure he does, dear sister.” I rolled my eyes.  
“Do you ever think about what life would be like, if we were still Saxon?” she asked, scratching her shoulder, her new tattoo settling into her skin nicely. Thor’s hammer, at Bjorn’s request.  
“I was this morning, actually.” I confessed.  
“To go back now, almost seems, foreign to me.” she said, polishing the last of her apple.  
“I could never, would never go back. I could never leave Ragnar.” I said, heart breaking at the thought.  
“I could never leave Bjorn.” she said, eyes sad.  
“Well, they’ll kill anyone who tries to take us, so we need not worry of things we know will not happen. This is our home.” I assured her.  
“You’re right. What does Ragnar have you doing today?” she asked, putting the apple core in the bucket for the hogs.  
“Ragnar does not _have_ me do anything,” I shot back. “Bjorn is a brute for making you do anything at all.”  
“So Ragnar is content if you sit around on your ass all day?” she shot back.  
“Yes, I _prefer_ for her to sit on her pretty ass all day,” Ragnar’s deep voice said from the doorway, smirking at me. “Good morning, smukke.” he greeted, striding over to me, pecking me on the lips.  
“Morning, my love.” I swooned, as he picked an apple from the basket on the table.  
“Bjorn’s outside, Agnes. He’s waiting to skin the kill. Wants to show you, first,” he chuckled. She happily skipped outside to her man, leaving us alone. He growled, pulling me into his chest, his fingers laced at the small of my back. “I cannot stop thinking of you.”  
“And I of you.” I replied as he bent his head down to press his forehead to mine.  
“Maybe we could go lie out under the stars tonight. Just you and I. Make love before the gods. Show them how grateful we are for one another.” he grinned as I playfully hit his chest.  
“Ragnar, don’t be indignant.” I scolded.  
“’M not. Just sounded like a good excuse, no?” he snorted softly, pressing a kiss to my neck, my arms winding around his.  
“Anything to be alone with you is a good excuse.” I giggled, his hands roaming to my ass, squeezing gently. “You’ll have to be careful with me tonight, lord. I can hardly walk straight today.” I teased, nipping his ear.  
“Whatever you’d like, min elskede.” he cooed, his tone soft.  
“Ragnar! Ragnar, come on. She’ll be there to kiss later. We have to butcher these before it’s too late to have them for dinner tonight.” Bjorn called from the butchery outside.  
“Go. I’ll go do the wash. Lots to clean up from last night.” I giggled as he walked away, shaking his head, laughing, taking his first bite of the apple. 


	2. ii

“I’ll make supper tonight, _min elskede_.” Ragnar offered later that afternoon, coming in from the butchery.

“Again? I haven’t cooked for you in three days.” I laughed, as he took off his apron, covered in blood. _Always covered in blood._

“Give these precious hands a break, hm?” he said, those blue eyes sparkling at me.

I blushed. “Alright, if you insist, lord.”

I sat in the courtyard, my hands at needlework, working on a piece for a quilt. For our first child, whenever the gods should grace us with one. This was the triple horn of Odin, meant to represent wisdom and divine inspiration—two things I hoped our children would have.

The fort bustled with activity. Men feeding the animals, children running about, in-between errands for their parents. I watched the world go by in-between stitches.

The sun slowly set, the air growing cool. It is spring in Dunholm. The sun shines brightly most days now, a breeze cooling the air, something the men were grateful for. “Anna,” Ragnar gently called out to me from the doorway of the hall. “Come eat.”

The smell of this rich, venison stew poured from the hearth in the kitchen, the stew simmering away in the black pot held above a flame. Warm bread was in a basket on the wooden table, bowls set and ready for the stew. He had managed to find some flowers in the fields earlier, and set them in a glass in the center of the table. I smiled. “Earl Ragnarson,” I gasped, hand to my chest. “You certainly have outdone yourself.”

He smiled. That _devilishly_ handsome smile. He walked over to me, pulling my chair out for me. “My lady,” he grinned. “You look beautiful.” he kissed my cheek, pushing my chair into the table.

“And you look handsome.” I smiled as he ladled us both up some stew.

We ate silently, smiling at each other across the table. Ragnar does more than his fair share of _everything._ He is, at his core, a very generous man. Very kind. Noble. Gentle. He helps with the cooking, the cleaning, the tending to the animals; he hunts, fishes, butchers the meat, helps make milk, cheeses, butter. He’s a master craftsman; he’s made all of our furniture. He loves playing with the children who live in the fort. Some of the men jokingly refer to him as Father Ragnar.

Remembering his promise of a night underneath the stars, I began to tease him. I ran my foot up his leg beneath the table, making him shift in his chair. Bjorn and Agnes walked by. Ragnar shot him a strained smile.

“You alright, lord?” Bjorn smirked, his green eyes sparkling. _Knowing_ exactly what was happening.

Ragnar cleared his throat. “Yes, yes fine. Fine.”

“We’re going to rest early. Be safe tonight. Lady. Rest well.” Bjorn nodded in my direction.

“Thank you. Goodnight, sister.” I smiled at my sister, who kept her eyes on Bjorn.

After they disappeared up the stairs, my eyes turned back to Ragnar. “Are you alright, my lord?”

He looked at me, eyes hazing over with lust. “My woman likes to tempt me.” he nearly growled, tone low.

“She must be punished.”

“Yes. Yes she must.”

We had finished the last of our bowls of stew. “I’ll clean these up. Go gather what we’ll need for the evening?” I suggested. He nodded.

A little while later, Ragnar had settled us in the middle of a field. The grasses were high, and flowers bent in the breeze slightly. The air was chilly, the moon shining bright above us, the stars winking at us.

He settled us down in a bed of furs he brought for the occasion. “I think it’s time, _min elskede_.” he announced, breaking the constellation-observing silence.

“Time for what?” I asked, propping my head up on his chest. Observing every breath. Every heartbeat.

“A child.”

I could almost hear his heart swell at the mere mention of a child. A child of his own. A child he can raise, an heir to his legacy. We’d been married for nearly a year now, and he’d been patient with my resistance in wanting a child, so soon. I am, admittedly, selfish when it comes to Ragnar. I hate battles, they take him away from me for days, weeks at a stretch. I hate when he hunts, he can be gone for hours. I hate when he goes drinking with his men, he comes back to me drunk and unable to be understood.

“I’ve been patient,” he interrupted my anxious thoughts. “I will always, before I am anyone else’s, be yours. Children included,” he shifted us both, getting on top of me, supporting his weight on his forearms, my head in his hands. “You know how important it is to me. I’ve spoken plainly to you about that from the beginning.”

“I know, I know you have,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “If that’s what you want,” I took a deep breath. “Then, may the gods bless my womb.”

He smiled, that golden Ragnar smile, before lowering his mouth to mine. He kissed me, deeply. Deeply. His beard tickled my chest. He licked into my mouth, growling with need. I felt his cock harden beneath his trousers, as he began grinding his hips into mine. He flipped us, so I was on top of him. “Show the stars your body, _sukke_ ,” he panted, hands on the sleeves of my dress, as I quickly untied the laces at my back. “My beautiful woman,” he praised, as I let the dress pool at my waist. The cool air made goosebumps run up and down my torso, my nipples perking at the cool contact. “Get back down here before you freeze,” he growled, flipping us again, settling me into the furs, pushing my dress all the way down my hips, bare before him. I palmed his cock through his trousers as he continued to kiss me, drink me in. “Don’t tease me, woman,” he growled, helping me with pushing his trousers down his hips, his cock springing free. Flushed, long, thick, heavy and hard. Pulling his tunic over his head, finally skin to skin, it was _his_ turn to tease me.

He ran the head of his cock through my folds, over my clit, making me moan in pleasure. “Ragnar!” I cried, slick pooling between my legs, heart racing. “Ragnar please!”

“Patience, _min elskede_ ,” he whispered.

He hovered over top of me, head above the tall grasses, on his knees. The moonlight illuminated his body, making my desire grow. He is broad, strong. Too strong. Tall, muscles bulging from every part of his body. He has a few tattoos that decorate his body. The helm of awe on his chest, above his heart, the triple horns of Odin on his right shoulder blade, and of course, the tattoos on his forehead and temples; exact replicas of ones his grandfather, Ravn, once had.

He continued to tease me, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “You’ve been patient enough, hm?”

“Yes, yes, Ragnar, please. Please!” I begged, back already arching, despite him barely touching me.

With one swift motion, he entered me, his eyes snapping closed, moaning in pleasure.

In all the years that I lived in Wessex, in Winchester, I never heard women crying out in pleasure the way they do in Daneland. When men return from battle, victorious, excited to tell the tales of how they won the battle, the cries can be heard from across town. Names of warriors being shouted by the women who claim them. Such activities, in Alfred’s England, would be sinful. Complete debauchery. Enough to get you severely scolded by the nuns of the town. But we are in Daneland. Ragnar’s Daneland, where such pleasure is encouraged. And often.

His hips snapped against mine, cock knocking against my cervix, a brutal pace. He lowered his thumb to my clit, sending me keening, over the edge, walls clenching around him. “That’s it, that’s it, sweet girl,” Ragnar encouraged. The thin sheen of sweat making him glow in the moonlight. My second round of pleasure soon followed. Eventually the pleasure flowed into one big wave, my body shaking and shivering beneath his. His head dropped to the space between my neck and shoulder, panting, breathless. His hips stuttered, and he groaned and moaned, cursing as he spilled his seed deep inside me. “You are perfect, so perfect.”

He stayed inside of me for a while, whispering sweet things into my ear, rubbing circles into my back, running his hands through my hair.

The next morning, Ragnar woke me up, rolling us around in the nest of furs he had created the night prior. His arms caged me against his chest, against his torso, still bare from last night. He is my own personal hearth—always warm. Always, even in the dead of brutally cold Dunholm winters.

I groaned, being pulled from my slumber. He snored softly, still fast asleep. He’s handsome, my man. Ruddy skin, scarred, tattooed and calloused. I love every inch of him. His blond hair and his crystal clear blue eyes. His arms flexed around me, holding me tighter.

In moments like these, thoughts ran rampant through my mind. Thoughts of _what if_. What if my family returns for me? What if my father demands my return? What if a ransom is offered? What of Ragnar? What of the child he will give to me?

Ragnar prodded me from my own thoughts, thoughts that terrorize me. “What is it, _min elskede?_ ” he asked, lips and nose nuzzling my neck.

“Just, thinking of home.” I replied.

“You are home, _smukke,_ ” he said, kissing my cheek. “This is home now.”

“Yes, yes you’re right. I’m sorry.” I smiled softly at him.

He helped me dress, silently, and then packed us up. We walked silently back to the hall.

The roosters crowed, hounds barked, chickens clucking throughout the yard, children beginning to feed them, to run around the yards.

We went throughout our day, silently, but together. “You’re quiet today.” he observed.

“I have nothing to say.” I smiled softly at him.

“I am sure you have something in that beautiful mind you’d like to speak.”

“Just thinking of that day, is all.”


	3. iii

The sun beamed bright over Winchester and the villages surrounding it that holy day. The day most men rested after attending church and prayer in the morning. Ale houses weren’t open until well into the evening, preparing for another long day of battle.

But it was morning still. Hot. The women of the farms, of the estates on the outskirts of Winchester were in the fields, picking the fruits and vegetables that were ripe. The men relaxing within the confines of their homes. Straw, humble homes. Barely a settlement.

The screams could be heard from the city, when the Danes arrived. The city was barely a mile away from the village, where Anna grew up. Where she was raised, alongside her sisters, Agnes and Mary. Her brother, Phillip, had died in the service to the king at Edington. Her parents, Patrick and Hilda, were simple people, with simple aspirations. For their daughters to marry well, have a decent life they tried to provide, but failed, due to taxation from the church and the state.

The screams were loud. So loud. The Danes’ ripped through the city, blood staining the streets. Women were taken, dignity stolen at the hands of the bloodthirsty and pleasure-seeking men.

Ragnar rode his horse quickly through the city, hoping, hoping to avoid his brother. And avoid him, he did. He rode towards the fields, if for nothing else, in hopes of ale and food for his men.

Anna ran, ran as far and as quickly as her legs would carry her. The family estate was on the farthest side of the village from the fields. Ragnar saw her hair, how it glimmered in the sun. Her face was dewy with sweat and tears. She looked over her shoulder as he dismounted his horse, eyes never leaving her. _His eyes never leave her._

“Stop!” his voice boomed. She froze immediately, a sword at her neck. “You, are all mine.” he breathed, his lips close to her ear, as he sheathed his sword, scooping her up underneath his arm, taking her to his horse. He heaved her up on the horse before climbing on behind her, arms around her waist, hands on the reins.

“Lord!” Cnut, Ragnar’s redheaded cousin, shouted from across the field. “Lord I have her sister!”

“How do you know?” Ragnar asked, the horse trotting to his cousin.

“When you scooped her up, she screamed, ‘Not my baby sister!’” he chuckled, Agnes’ body draped over the horse’s back.

“What’d you do to her?” Anna shrieked, noticing her sister’s body lying limp.

“Relax, lady. I only knocked her out. She’s a feisty one.” Cnut smirked.

Anna’s body trembled, tears rolling down her face. Ragnar’s arms closed seemingly tighter around her. An attempt at comfort.

“Where are you taking us?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“To Dunholm. It’s about three days away. We’ll be there before you know it.” Ragnar teased.

“Lord! We have the silver!” a tall, muscular man yelled at Ragnar, hovered over a chest filled to the brim with silver and gold relics from a church. Bjorn. A good man, a good warrior. Favored by the gods.

“Let’s go. The king will approach quickly, no doubt.” Ragnar barked at his men, whose ears perked and obeyed his commands. His orders.

They rode until nightfall. The sun set and they stopped to rest. Agnes had woken from her ordeal, her nose bloodied and cheek bruised from Cnut’s brutal punch.

“Will he hurt her anymore?” Anna asked Ragnar, wrapped in his fur, still shivering. He sat close to her by the fire, his arm touching hers, his knee against her thigh, as he prodded the fire absentmindedly with a stick.

Cnut had Agnes by the arm, hoisting her this way and that way, taunting her, half drunk. Ragnar’s eyes wandered to his cousin, and then to Anna’s face. “Cnut, that’s enough,” Ragnar’s voice rumbled, deep through his chest. Every man’s eyes turned towards Ragnar. Cnut’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “Leave her. Let her sit with her sister. She’s had enough today, she could go without your cock and be just fine, I am sure.”

Agnes scrambled out of Cnut’s grip, towards Anna. Anna opened the fur for her, as she ran underneath it. Almost as if they were shelter for one another. “It’s alright, he won’t hurt you.” Anna whispered.

“Did he hurt you?” Agnes whispered, her eyes drifting to Ragnar.

Anna shook her head. “No. No nothing like that. He’s been kind.”

Ragnar’s heart swelled in his chest, as Anna shot him an appreciative glance.

That evening, he dreamt of her. Dreamt of her dark brown doe eyes gazing into his heart, into his soul, warming his bed, kissing him, her hands touching him, pleasing him. He thought of the fortress with her as the Lady of Dunholm. _His_ lady of Dunholm. A lady, not a warrior. He’d grown tired of war. Of talk of war. Of battle. Yes, he is a warrior, always has been and always will be. It’s deep in his blood, streaming down from his father and his grandfather. He is proud to be a warrior. He has enjoyed every battle, every thrust of his sword, every life he has taken it has been for the advancement of a cause. The cause of Daneland. An empire.

But Ragnar craves warmth. To be touched by a woman not marred by war, by battle, by blood spilled on her skin. He wants to return to a home, to his chambers, his quarters, at the end of a raid, of a day, and have someone to sleep next to. Someone who won’t only speak of war, of battle, of killing, of Alfred and his ideal of an England. Of the Dane’s and their greed and need for silver, land, gold, women, ale, possessions. Someone who he could speak to about things that run far deeper in the human heart than that.

Someone who he could hold. Someone who he could hump nightly and never grow tired of her. Never grow bored, as he has so many times before. If his mother were living she would roll her eyes at the number of women he’s taken to bed with the promise of marriage, and the next moon she is gone because he has bedded another woman. But he is tired of that. Tired of it all. Wants someone to desire him just as much as he does her. Someone he can love.

He wakes up, back aching from sleeping on a rock. He curses the offensive rock, rubbing the small of his back. A pang of guilt hits his heart from ripping her from her life. His men probably killed her family, he told them to spare no one. No man was to get out alive.

The sisters were awake. Bjorn had offered them a comb to rake through their hair. He was clearly fascinated with Agnes, the older of the two. They are both thin, similar builds. Agnes’ hair is blond, and she has green eyes. She is shorter. Freckles dot her face. Bjorn watched affectionately as Agnes combed through her hair. Anna already had, and was putting it back into a plait.

Ragnar watched them from afar, sitting up, getting his skin full of water, bringing it to his lips. The glow of the sunrise casted a beautiful color on Anna’s skin, making his heart swell. “She is beautiful, lord,” Cnut came and sat next to him. “I think her lips would look nice wrapped around my stiff cock.” he chuckled, biting off a piece of bread for breakfast.

“Can you think of nothing except bedding women, cousin?” Ragnar asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s barely past sunrise.”

“It’s all I think of. I need a son.” Cnut chuckled.

“You need your own estate first.” Ragnar smirked. He stood, his joints cracking, bones creaking. _I’m getting too old for this,_ he thought to himself.

“I need a woman first. If you don’t plow her, I will, cousin.” Cnut’s eyes wandered to the women, as he bit his lip.

Ragnar clapped a hand over his cousins’ shoulder. “Touch either of them again, and I will sever your hand from your arm. Understood?”

“So you do want her for yourself?”

Ragnar sighed, annoyed. “Understood?”

Cnut noticed the expression on his cousins face. A serious one. “Understood.”

Two days later, they arrived at Dunholm. The gates were opened for them, Ragnar riding in on his horse first, followed by Cnut and Bjorn. Agnes was riding with Bjorn, and Anna with Ragnar.

“We have returned from Wessex,” Ragnar shouted, for all of the people in the courtyard to hear. “Victorious!” the people cheered, clapped. Excited. “And the spoils of war, include these beautiful women!” the people cheered louder. “And _silver_!”

Two men brought the trunks of silver from the cart to the center of the courtyard, where Ragnar dealt it to his fiercest warriors, keeping a significant portion for himself. “I want every man to know, these women, are not to be touched! They are to be my whores!” he announced, the men cheering, shouting debauchery at the women. Their hearts raced, all color draining from their faces. “Tonight, we celebrate. We play games, we feast, we drink, and we _hump_ ,” the crowd continued to be shout, excited for their lords’ victory. “Come with me.” he whispered to Anna and Agnes, taking them inside the great hall.

They followed him up the stairs, their hearts racing the whole time. The corridors were lit with torches, perched onto the walls in their holdings, illuminating the hallways, though dimly. It was warmer up here—heat rises, hence the bedchambers were upstairs.

“Agnes,” Ragnar’s voice rumbled deep in his chest, trying _trying_ to be quiet, to whisper. “Bjorn will have room for you in his chambers. It’s three doors down,” he paused, gauging their response. “Anna, come with me.”

He led her to his bed chambers, another dimly lit room with a window across from the door. It let some light in, from the courtyard below, where the men played games, drank and found their women for the evening. A hearth was across from the bed, a small fire in it. Ragnar immediately threw another log onto it, the night air chilly. The bed was draped in clean, cotton blankets, a fur at the foot of the bed. A trunk was at the end of the bed. Ancestral swords lined the wall where the window was. The swords of Ragnar’s father, Ragnar the Fearless, and grandfather, Ravn. Of Ravn’s father, of those from Denmark who were unable to make the voyage to Wessex for better land, for better life.

Next to the hearth was a bucket of water, and two cloths draped over the side. He bent over his trunk, pulling out two shirts, and a pair of pants. “You’ve had a long day. A long few days. Please, bathe. You can wear this, it’s one of my old shirts. It doesn’t fit me anymore, but it’s clean, and I think it’ll fit you just fine,” he explained softly. “The water is fresh, and you can clean up a little. If you’d like, I can have some of the women show you where they bathe tomorrow.”

She blushed, wondering if he would leave her to clean herself off and change alone, or if he would stay and watch. He grabbed his clean, thin pants, and his clean shirt and walked out of the room, letting the door close behind him silently. She mumbled a prayer of thanks as she slid the dress over her head, dipping the cloth in the lukewarm water. She ran it over her face, her shoulders, arms, breasts, stomach, legs, feet. She dipped it back in the water and rang it out again before scrubbing behind her ears, her neck, her forehead. She repeated the process until she felt clean, until she felt clean. Felt pure again.

She slid the thin shirt over her head. It was a soft yellow, faded near the elbows, where Ragnar’s elbows would be, where her forearms are. It ended just above her knees, showcasing her long, lean legs. The door creaked open, Ragnar’s own freshly cleaned face peering around the corner. “You look much better,” he smiled at her, gently entering, throwing his dirty clothing in a basket in the corner of the room, behind the door. “Much cleaner. How are you feeling?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Afraid, lord.” she replied, hands clasped together in front of her.

“You need not be afraid of me. My name is Ragnar. Please call me Ragnar,” he said. She nodded. The fire in the hearth was blazing now, sending a trickle of sweat down his spine. “I’m afraid we have no spare beds, lady. You’ll have to suffer my bed tonight.” he chuckled.

She quietly agreed, sliding into the opposite side of the bed, sinking into the feather mattress, the material cool against her warm skin. He slid in next to her, after dumping the bucket of water on the fire, extinguishing it with a hiss. “Thank you, Ragnar. For allowing me to wash in privacy, and for the clothes.” she said, facing him. He smiled at her in the moonlight.

“You’re welcome, lady.” he smiled, before rolling on his side, his back to her.

“Anna. Please call me Anna, Ragnar.” she smiled, sliding down into the blankets more.

“Goodnight, Anna.” Ragnar whispered into the night as they both drifted asleep.

The next morning, she woke up to an empty bed. Unharmed. Untouched. Alone. She smiled to herself. Maybe life with Ragnar Ragnarson wouldn’t be so bad, after all.


	4. iv

The next few weeks went by seamlessly, Ragnar helping Anna adapt to life with the Danes.

“The women here,” she observed, “Are so much different than the women in Wessex,” her eyes watched in wonder as several women sat in the courtyard, spinning wool to make their husband’s clothing for the upcoming winter months. Others sat and created fine needlework, in this little space they had created. They chatted as their children played off in the distance, playing Danes and Saxon’s, good versus evil.

Ragnar chuckled. “I will teach you to be Dane, _smukke._ ” he laid a hand on the small of her back gently, reassuring her.

“What does that mean? In your language?” she asked, eyes wide as she looked up at him.

His face flushed. She _had_ to know how captivated by her he was. She had to. How he had recently let her sleep in his chambers by herself. He had been sleeping in the stable with the horses the last few weeks, trying to give her space, make her feel safe. _She is_ , after all.

“It means gorgeous,” his hand bumped against hers, making his heart leap in his chest. “You are gorgeous.”

“I’m flattered.” she smiled, bumping her hand against his again, observing the children playing.

In the afternoons, the women would put away their yarn, their wool, their needlework, and tell the boys to go find their fathers in the fields, in the stables, around the towns, to work with them, to learn from them. The girls would follow their mothers to the kitchens, help with the preparation of dinner.

Ragnar is a good cook. He’d proved that many times. Everyone in the hall took turns cooking, making food for one another. They’d eat whenever they had time, when they were hungry, there was no obligation to eat together whatsoever, except on nights when the ale was plenty and Ragnar wanted to play games. He’s quite the host.

Anna came down the stairs one evening, a hearty stew boiled in the pot above the flame. Ragnar had poured himself a mug of ale and sharpened his sword as he waited for the stew to finish cooking. She watched him, meticulously sharpen the blade of his weapon, eyes sharp and focused on it. “Ragnar?” she said quietly, as not to scare him.

He looked up at her, immediately standing. “Yes?”

“I’d like to cook for you, but I’d like to make something you like. Will you teach me?”

Ragnar’s eyes softened, heart nearly melting inside his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had cooked a meal for him. Maybe his mother, before she died, tragically in the fire. Brida never was the domestic type. Always relied on the help of slaves to get her meals, to do the wash, to do the weaving, making the clothes, maintaining the armor. Ragnar’s heart raced at the thought of a woman _taking care of him_.

“Yes, yes I will teach you.” he said, after a momentary, unintentional pause.

The dinner, though lovely, was short-lived. Ragnar had announced to the men that tonight, they would drink and play games, his favorite things. By sundown, there were fires lit around the courtyards, in front of the alehouse, the stables, Ragnar’s hall, keeping the women warm while their husband’s challenged each other in nothing but friendly competition.

The smell of ale was strong, the men hell-bent on sleeping past noon tomorrow, sleeping off their drunken stupors. Not that there was anything in particular to do tomorrow, after all. Ragnar’s Dunholm was at peace with the Danes, with the Saxons. He’d refused to lay siege on Wessex any further, now that he _knew_ it’s where Uhtred, his Saxon-turned-Dane brother resided. The Danes tended to leave Ragnar alone. If nothing else, Ragnar is fair, loyal, but he will protect what is his.

Anna sat inside the fort, wrapped in a shawl, crocheting a scripted “A” into a piece of cloth. In the back of her mind, she thought she would give it to Ragnar, _just because_. She sat by the fire, alone with her thoughts, thinking of Ragnar and his soft blue eyes and his tattoo that she still didn’t understand the meaning of, and how his rough, calloused hand felt bumping against her own.

When his large, towering figure appeared in the doorway, she was a little startled. Like her thoughts summoned him. “Ragnar, you startled me.” she explained her slight jumpiness.

He smiled at her, as if he were choosing his words carefully. Hand selecting them. “Will you join me in the courtyard? And watch the games?” he asked. “Of course, if you’re too cold, you don’t have to, I—“

She set her needlework down, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Ragnar, I would love to.”

He escorted her outside, his hand on the small of her back as he helped her weave through the crowds. Agnes was already seated outside, with some other ladies. Agnes held a mug of ale in her hand, cheering on Bjorn, the man who had taken a great liking to her. She was a little drunk. “Ragnar, when will you just admit it, you want to bed my sister,” Agnes nearly shouted, over the crowds. The men in close proximity turned their heads, wanting the latest bit of gossip themselves. Ragnar remained silent, trying to think of the right witty words to come back with. But Agnes wouldn’t _stop talking_. “She is beautiful, Ragnar. I see the way you look at her. We all do.”

Cnut stood nearby, seeing Anna, wrapped in her shawl, her shoulder slightly exposed, hair falling down her back in loose waves, eyes wide at the games in the center of the courtyard. He came up behind her, his hand groped her arse. “If my cousin doesn’t hump you soon, beauty, I will.”

Anna squeaked, heart thumping in her chest. Ragnar noticed his cousin’s unwanted contact, bristling immediately. “That’s enough.” he said quietly yet gruffly.

“A woman like this needs to be humped, Ragnar. Needs to be bedded. Married. Give a warrior, sons! If you don’t do it, Ragnar, I will.” he insisted, his drunken stupor taking over.

“That’s enough!” Ragnar countered, stepping between Anna and Cnut.

He stepped closer, still, his chest nearly bumping Ragnar’s.

Anna shivered behind Ragnar, a combination of a chill and fear. “If she’s yours, don’t sleep in the stables tonight, cousin.” Cnut smirked before walking away, his legs wobbly beneath him.

Ragnar pulled Anna to the back of the crowd, where the benches were. He sat her on his knee, his arms protectively around her. “Forgive my cousin, _smukke_ ,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “He thinks with his cock and not his brain.”

She chuckled. “It’s quite alright. It’s a wonder you two are related at all, Ragnar.”

“His mother always was a whore.” he joked, his chuckle warming her soul, her heart.

He held her close as he cheered his men on for the games, drank his ale, stoked the fire with his metal poker, making embers fly every which way.

In what could only be assumed as the middle of the night, the men started to wander to their respective homes, their camps, their parts of the fort to sleep. The women they had spent the evening with followed them. Ragnar tapped her side gently, signaling Anna to stand up. She stood, knees wobbly with sleep, as Ragnar stood behind her, groaning, bones and joints cracking.

He took her hand. Her heart leapt in her chest. His large, warm, calloused, scarred hand molded to her significantly smaller and softer one beautifully. He walked alongside her, not in front, not behind. Alongside.

He led her to his chambers, the door closing shut behind them heavily. The fire was still blazing, thanks to the boy he had paid a few pieces of silver to keep it going tonight during the games.

Setting his heavy fur down on one of the trunks, he slid his shoes off, his sword belt, his over shirt.

Anna’s heart thudded in her chest, the blood rushing to her ears as he walked towards her. He stood in front of her, reaching out to take both of her hands in his. “I would be lying if I told you I did not get angry with what Cnut said.” he said quietly, unable to look her in the eyes.

“He was drunk, Ragnar—he—“

“No, no about him taking you for himself,” he explained, sighing deeply. “I would be lying if I said _I_ don’t want you for myself, _min skat._ ”

Blood pounded through her veins. She felt lightheaded. Her fingers tingled. “Ragnar?” she whispered shakily.

“I want to be faithful to you, Anna,” he shuffled closer, impossibly closer, his hips pressing against her belly gently. “I want to be faithful to you, and only you. But only if you will have me.”

Many thoughts flooded her mind. Is he proposing marriage? If she pledges loyalty to a Dane, will she ever return to Wessex? To her family? To the life she once knew and cherished before it was ripped from this man who was now pledging _his_ loyalty, _his_ allegiance to? Are Danes loyal?

But if she were to pledge her loyalty to Ragnar, she would have the promise of protection, of provision, of a warm bed, a strong man, a strong, Danish army. Survival.

“I’ll have you, Ragnar Ragnarson.” she smiled.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing in disbelief. The gods had heard his cries. And here stood their answer.


	5. v.

We stood in front of each other for a moment longer. My heart pounded in my chest, unable to believe the words coming from Young Ragnar, the fearless warrior. Tales had been told in Wessex of his younger, wilder brother, Uhtred, but the apple does not fall far from the tree in weaponry and skill. The two have much in common, from the stories I’ve heard and the things I’ve seen the last few moons at Dunholm. The thought that I have brought this strong, capable warrior to his knees with love makes my heart beat faster.

His hands dropping mine pulled me from my daze. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer still to his frame. He sighed happily, tired from his evening of his favorite things—games, good food and ale.

“I will not take you for pleasure until you are ready, _smukke_.” he said, his chin resting gently on the top of my head.

My head spun. “But—what—I’m,” I stammered as he held me tight. “Why pledge loyalty when there is no guarantee of pleasure? Now or ever?”

His arms loosened enough to look me in the eyes. “I know you care for me as I do you. It is my hope that one day you will desire to feel the pleasure Dane men can give their women. It’s not all for me, you know,” I began to shake my head no when he cupped my face in his hands. “This, what you and I are pledging to another, is a partnership. It benefits both of us. Not mainly me, not mainly you. But us both, equally. In all aspects. I give you my word that I will prove that to you.”

“In Wessex, marriages, arrangements, are often to settle disputes, to arrange for an alliance, to benefit men’s desires and fulfill their needs. I won’t be harsh if you find your end of this deal to be hard to keep.” I explained.

He huffed, his hands dropping to his sides. He walked around the foot of the bed, to what I could only assume was “his side” and settled under the furs. “Come, _smukke,”_ he beckoned. I shed my furs, my outer skirts and shirts, the ones that kept me warm. It was hot in the room, and Ragnar himself is a hearth. Always warm. We laid next to each other, on our backs, staring at the beams on the ceiling. “My father had two great loves in his life,” he began. “War, and my mother. I’ve seen what love can do to a man. How it can weaken him or strengthen him. A perfect love does both. Men are raised and told they need to be harsh, fearless, brutal. And as a warrior, you do. But when the right woman comes along and weakens him _only for her_ , that’s love. My father worshipped the ground she walked on, truly,” he chuckled. I smiled, seeing a glimmer of joy in his eyes, speaking of his family he was so fond of. “They were the best example Uhtred, Thyra and I could’ve had.”

“You have a sister?” I asked, ears perking at the thought of a female companion. 

He smiled. “I do. She’s married to a priest, she lives in Winchester now,” he sighed. “When I became of age, to start sewing my oats, so to say,” he chuckled. “My father had a stern conversation with me. He said, ‘Ragnar, you are old enough to choose who you’d like to spend your life with. Choose wisely. And when you do, remember it’s not all about you. Her pleasure first, yours second. She eats first, you second. And when you become a father, she still is first. Then it’s your children, and you are last. Remember this, Young Ragnar,’” he chuckled again, biting his lip absentmindedly. “I can still see the way they looked at each other, in my minds eye.”

“Where are they? Your parents?”

He turned his head to look at me. “Valhalla. With their ancestors before them. They are much happier now I know,” he turned on his side. “I promise, I will be good to you always.”

_The Present._

I’m sure my cries could be heard through the halls, I’m _sure_ of it. Chanting Ragnar’s name, cursing louder than I’d care to admit, nearly sobbing, overstimulated from all of it. “Ragnar, Ragnar, please, please!”

“Not yet, _smukke,_ not yet,” he growled, his body bent over mine, his chest pressed against my back as he bent me over the foot of the bed. “Be good for me, _min elskede_ , be good.”

I clamped my eyes shut as his teeth bit down on the shell of my ear, sending chills down my spine, right to my clit. “Ragnar, Ragnar I can’t, I can’t!” I cried, legs betraying me and turning wobbly underneath me. “Ragnar!” His hips snapped against my ass, the flesh rippling, muscles in my belly clenching together, _begging_ for release.

He let out a breathy moan as he drove his cock deeper, deeper into my core. “Almost, almost,” he promised, a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead to my shoulder. He reached a hand between my legs, rubbing tight circles into my clit, sending me keening further. “Okay, okay, sweet girl. Let go for me.” he encouraged.

I’m sure I went blind for a moment as my body convulsed beneath his, limbs shaking, white hot pleasure spreading through my organs, veins, senses. My ears rang—I could barely hear him grunting my name, as his seed filled me, hot and thick deep inside me.

His breathing slowed gradually as his weight dropped from his forearms to bearing almost wholly on me, pinning me to the foot of the bed.

I giggled, pleasure drunk beneath him. “Ragnar, Ragnar I can’t breathe!” I giggled as his fingers reached to tickle my sides.

He flipped us, and I straddled his thighs as his fingers continued to attack my sides. “Does that tickle? Hm? It tickles, doesn’t it?” he laughed, eyes gleaming with happiness. He stopped, still smiling at me, his hand reaching up to cup my face. “What would I do without you? What would I be without you, _smukke_?” he pondered aloud, his smile fading, one of sincerity and adoration crossing his features instead.

“You’d be with some other woman in your bed, but just as happy and successful, my love.” I half-teased, kissing the tip of his nose.

He shook his head no. “No, no I am what I am because of the woman I walk beside.” he smiled at me, that joyous gleam returning to his eyes.

“You’re too good to me, my Ragnar.”

We laid in bed, gently touching each other, fingers ghosting across skin, raising goosebumps, soft laughter being the only sound filling the air now.

A loud knock at the door made me jump. “Who is it?” Ragnar barked, holding me close to him. If the intruder were to enter the doors, he wouldn’t be able to see my bare form.

“Bjorn, lord.”

“Speak!” Ragnar barked at Bjorn.

The door slowly creaked open slightly as Ragnar’s body covered mine still, his chest pressing against mine. “Thyra and Beocca are at the gates, lord. They wish to see you.”

“I’ll be down in a moment, when I can get my woman off of me.” He joked, his eyes sparkling down at me.

“Yes, lord.” Bjorn turned and closed the door quietly. Ragnar nearly jumped from the bed, throwing clothes over his head. A loose shirt and some trousers, before sliding into some boots. He retied his hair with his scarlet cord, his favorite color.

“ _Min elskede,_ you cannot meet my sister without any clothes, come on!” he joked, pulling me from my trance of watching him. I pulled a dress on while he splashed water on his face.

A few moments later, Ragnar was whisking me down the stairs of our hall, nearly tripping over my heels, insisting I go first, _always insisting I go first_. Just as we reached the end of the stairs, Thyra and Beocca were entering through the doors of the hall.

“Ragnar!” Thyra cried. She has striking features. Sharp cheekbones and very pale complexion. She has large green eyes and bright red hair.

“You look beautiful, Thyra!” Ragnar exclaimed, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Ragnar, this is my husband, Beocca.” Beocca is a plain man. He is balding and wears clothes like a priest in Winchester. Plain and grey. 

“I still cannot believe you married the priest.” Ragnar smiled at her. 

“Lord.” Beocca addressed Ragnar, bowing his head slightly.

“Thyra, Beocca, this is my wife, Anna.”

Thyra’s attention turned to me for the first time. Her eyes lit up. “Ragnar! She is beautiful.”

“Lady Ragnarson.” Beocca bowed his head slightly to me as well.

“We will dine together tonight.” Ragnar told them, putting his arm around my waist. “Rest first, please, I am sure your journey was difficult.”

“I’d appreciate that, lord.” Beocca said.

“I will show you to your room,” Ragnar told them, leading them up the stairs. When he returned downstairs to me, he hurried me to help him prepare food. “I haven’t seen Thyra in years.” He said, a newfound gleam in his eye.

I kneaded the dough for the bread while he butchered the meat for the roast he was to prepare. “Who do you look like, Ragnar?” I asked him. When I had pictured his sister, I had pictured her looking similar to him—fair hair and a ruddy complexion with a boisterous personality. But she seems shy, quiet yet wise.

“My father. With blond hair,” he chuckled. “Father always used to say that no matter what happened, I had to take care of Thyra. That the chances of me settling down with a respectable woman were right alongside hogs providing lamb,” he laughed, his shoulders shaking. “I’m glad you did not know me then.”

“Would he have liked me?” I asked, putting the bread on a stone to set on top of the fire.

“Yes,” Ragnar looked up at me from where he was cutting the sinew away from the meat, his hands bloodied. “He would’ve loved you. My mother would’ve taken some convincing, though.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, standing next to him. He pushed me slightly behind him as he took a rather hard swing with his knife at the joint, blood spraying his apron, and would have sprayed my dress.

“She was protective of me. Didn’t like that I started taking a liking to girls so young.”

“What would I not have liked about you then?” I asked as he put the meat on the spit roast over the fire.

“I would not have treated you well. I was young and arrogant. When my family died, I had to put a lot of that away and become a man.”

“And Brida helped with that, no?”

He stiffened at her name. “She did. She tamed me. Mainly because she became more feral. I wish you wouldn’t speak of her.”

“I’m sorry, my love.” I said quietly, as he rinsed his hands of the blood.

We stood in silence. He slowly turned the meat while I peeled small potatoes to boil. He came up behind me quietly, pressing his nose to my hair, inhaling my scent, his arms wrapping around me, hands resting gently on my belly. I set my knife down, leaning against his back, embracing his touch.

“I want you to know I love you because you are different than Brida. I do not wish for you to be as she was. Is,” he pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “I love that you are kind, wise. That you speak with caution and that you love fearlessly. You love me fearlessly. Something she could never truly do.

The tips of my ears lit afire as he pressed himself closer to me, closer still, before turning me around to face him, pressing his forehead to mine. “You are my life, _min elskede._ I would do anything for you, because I know you would do anything for me.”

“You need only ask.” I whispered in unison with him.

“I could stand here and hold you all night, but I must turn the meat.” He chuckled, always laughing.

“I must boil the potatoes. And clear your table.”

“Clear _my_ table?” he shot back playfully.

“Of all of your maps and papers.”

“They are important. Necessary to secure the future for your children.” He said, turning the meat over the fire.

“I believe you, my love. Please put this over the fire.” I handed him a pot of potatoes with water in it.

A few hours later Thyra and Beocca had descended down the stairs, hungry and ready to see Ragnar.

“What brings you to my fine fortress?” Ragnar asked, eying Beocca.

“We thought Uhtred would be here. We are here to formally banish him from Winchester- it is law that it must be done.”

Ragnar’s forehead creased. “Banish him? For what?”

Beocca cleared his throat. “He has, killed a priest, in the kings court, it seems. Though he was provoked.” Beocca added quickly.

“My brother.” He mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Thyra,” I tried diverting the conversation. “Do you live in the city of Winchester?”

“Oh, yes, with Beocca. We live not far from the palace. Since he is the kings advisor.” She looked lovingly at Beocca.

“I see. That is lovely. I always liked walking past the palace when we would go into town.”

“You are from Winchester?” Thyra asked. “Ragnar how did she end up here?”

“I swept her off her feet, of course. Captured her heart,” He smiled at me. “She decided she couldn’t live without me, she was _instantly_ captivated by the handsome, apple-cheeked Dane who rode through her town.”

“I remember it a little differently.” I smiled back at him, thinking of that day. It is simultaneously the most painful memory I have, and the day my life changed forever, because I found my Ragnar.

“Is he your happiness?” Ragnar asked Thyra, referring to Beocca.

“Yes,” she looked over at Beocca fondly. “I could not live without him.”

“Nor I her.” Beocca responded, taking her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Is she your happiness?” Thyra asked Ragnar.

“Yes. She is my happiness, and my whole world.”

“My sun, my moon, and all my stars.” I raised my hand to his cheek, my nails gently scratching over his beard as he hummed in appreciation.

Thyra’s eyes were misty as she looked at us. “You remind me of our mother. Her disposition was much like yours. I am glad Ragnar has you, Anna.” 


End file.
